


Wolf in the Fold

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Reality, Drama, Drugs, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Medical Procedures, Prison, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trip, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-03
Updated: 2009-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-Crash world, it's every man for himself.  At least, that's what people <i>say</i>.  3,621 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf in the Fold

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU, set in a world not too much unlike our own except for a few vital differences. The story was sparked by a plotbunny that contained only one scene and was given a context and backdrop by [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/). Additional dialogue by [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) and [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/). LJ-cut text is from the [Depression-era song](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brother,_Can_You_Spare_a_Dime%3F) of the same name.

_**Fic: Wolf in the Fold**_  
 **Title:** Wolf in the Fold  
 **Author:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:** Wilson, House.  
 **Rating:** "R" for violence and rough language.  
 **Warnings:** Yes, for an incident of violence.  
 **Spoilers:** No.  
 **Summary:** In a post-Crash world, it's every man for himself. At least, that's what people _say_. 3,621 words.  
 **Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **Author Notes:** This is an AU, set in a world not too much unlike our own except for a few vital differences. The story was sparked by a plotbunny that contained only one scene and was given a context and backdrop by [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/). Additional dialogue by [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) and [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/). LJ-cut text is from the [Depression-era song](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brother,_Can_You_Spare_a_Dime%3F) of the same name.  
 **Beta:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to the above.

  
 **Wolf In the Fold**

  
Wilson hates and loves his job as a Volunteer Corps doctor -- administering vaccinations and physical exams to prisoners, doling out cheap aspirin, lice-killer, and diarrhea remedies while running the camp's tiny library, all for room and board, certainly isn't what he _expected_ to be doing after graduating med school, but since the Crash he's grateful to have anything when so many others have nothing. He's still got enough self-respect not to be in on the crazy experiments run by some of the other staff, but he wonders how long that'll last before their subtle attempts at persuasion turn to outright coercion. Maybe it doesn't even matter -- the camp's slowly falling apart anyway. Just in the past few months he's noticed guards and clerks, men armed with rifles and other men packing staplers and pocket protectors, drifting away, drawn to easier jobs in Mexico and points south.

Wilson sighs and opens another patient folder. He brightens momentarily when he sees it's House's, then deflates almost immediately. What the hell kind of life is it when the high point of his day is meeting a camp inmate for lunch and conversation?

He shoves the folder aside and scrubs at his face with both hands. He's depressed, he knows it. He should ask one of his so-called colleagues for a scrip. He should start running again. He should look for a new job. He wishes he cared enough to do any of these things.

Still, he's disappointed when House doesn't show up for lunch.

* * *

He's loading his briefcase with journals he's not going to read and papers he's not going to annotate when the soft knock comes on the steel jamb of his open door. He looks up and feels his first real smile of the day lift his lips.

"Hey," House says, and then he swallows, and Wilson's smile fades away.

House looks rough -- not that he ever _doesn't_ look rough. What with his ever-present three-day stubble and short institutional haircut at odds with each other, his overall appearance is more that of a Skid Row bum than a Federal prisoner. Not to say, Wilson considers, that the former might be a more accurate description these days, given the state of the Federal government.

"Hey," House says again. "I'm ... not feeling so great." He makes a vague gesture with his aluminum cane. "I was thinking maybe ... we could walk for a little while. Sorry I ... missed lunch."

Wilson sidesteps around his desk and crosses quickly to House's side. This close, he can see that House's respiration is increased. There are dark circles of sweat under his arms, and an oddly rank odor rises from his skin, as if he's missed morning showers.

"House?"

House averts his gaze and stares at the floor. Wilson tries again.

"House, are you okay? You look like you need to sit -- "

At this, House's head jerks up and he glares at Wilson.

 _"No,"_ he snaps. "I do _not_ need to sit down, I need to _walk_." He swallows again, and looks away. "Sorry," he rasps out. "I'm ... sorry. I just feel like I need to ... move."

"Okay," Wilson soothes. "Okay, that's fine." He rubs at the back of his neck, momentarily discomfited. "Look," he says. "I'll leave my stuff here, and we'll ... go for a walk." He smiles, hoping to ease the man's obvious anxiety, and gently touches House's elbow, steering him back out the office door. "Come on," he says. They pass the empty chair where Wilson's assistant used to sit before the latest round of cutbacks, and step outside.

* * *

The autumn air is crisp and cool, and Wilson realizes he's forgotten that the evenings are coming ever earlier. The kitchen is firing up the camp cookstoves, and the scent of sweet woodsmoke perfumes the air. House seems invigorated by the change of seasons; his step is lighter and he raises his head as if to sniff out the new aromas carried on the breeze. Wilson's unease drains away, and it's not until they're deep in the stretch of woods that border the camp's east side that he becomes conscious of how far they've actually walked. He stops, suddenly aware that for the past few minutes he's been talking to himself. He stands on the sandy trail and turns around; he feels oddly alone, but that doesn't make sense -- House is right there, a mere five feet away, standing under the spreading limbs of a magnificent oak.

Standing there, watching him.

The tiny hairs on Wilson's arms prickle, and he curses himself silently. No matter how much he considers House a friend, he's still a _convicted prisoner_ , and now Wilson's alone with him in the middle of the fucking woods, with the evening giving way to true night. Already the light is changing, a full moon rising beyond the trees casting a shimmering, ghostly sheen on the leaves. Wilson licks his suddenly dry lips.

"House?"

Instead of answering, House lowers his head and stares at Wilson from beneath furrowed brows. His shoulders come up. He takes a single, stiff-legged step forward, and from deep in his chest, a slow bass rumble arises that it takes Wilson a distressingly long moment to identify as a _growl_.

 _You need to run._ It's the part of Wilson's brain that's got a handle on the situation instead of trying to understand what's happening. _Run, **now**._

House takes another slow step forward. Wilson just has time to notice House isn't using his cane before his own legs obey his brain.

He turns tail and runs for his life.

* * *

On some level Wilson still can't believe this is happening.

On that level, men who've been crippled a good ten years, men who have been inmates at substandard Federal pens with a lousy diet and no real exercise, men who should have _given up hope years ago_ , don't suddenly change into a goddamn _animal_ and start fucking _chasing_ people through the woods.

On another level, the visceral this-is-happening-right-now level, Wilson's breath is sawing crazily in his raw throat as he flees from his pursuer. A high-pitched yodeling cry splits the air, and Wilson redoubles his efforts as he realizes House is fucking _howling_ at him.

 _"Oh, shit,"_ he sobs, _"oh shit oh shit oh god,"_ and for a moment when he can't hear House or whatever House has become crashing on the trail behind him, he thinks he's made it. At least until he trips and goes flying head over heels, the quicksilver flash of aluminum underfoot being House's cane that he's fucking _thrown_ at Wilson's legs.

Wilson hits the ground hard and tries to come up rolling, but his right ankle collapses under him with an audible _pop!_ and then House is on his back, riding him down in a tangle of arms and legs and grasping, clawing hands. Wilson kicks out, scrabbles to one knee and is immediately brought down again when House gets an arm around him and delivers a short, vicious rabbit-punch to the back of his neck. Wilson drops to the ground, extremities tingling like a bad case of pins and needles, and House seizes the opportunity to plant a knee in his back and punch him again, this time over the kidneys. Still half-paralyzed by the first stunning blow, Wilson tries once more to pull his legs up, to at least get partway on his feet even though his ankle is _screaming_ at him to stop. He succeeds only in rolling onto his side before House hits him again, a savage sideways jab in the gut that drives all the air out of Wilson's lungs in an agonized _whoosh!_ and everything goes numb again. House hits him a half dozen more times, each blow bringing increasing waves of immobilizing pain, and when he finally rolls him over and sits on his chest, pinning Wilson's shoulders and wrists to the ground, Wilson can't do a damn thing to stop him. He leans over until his face is just an inch from Wilson's, so close that Wilson can feel the hot, panting breath on his cheeks, and he blinks through tears of pain to stare into House's eyes.

There's nothing human there, just a brilliant animal madness, the pupils blown so wide the only iris showing is a thin blue ring.

 _"House,"_ Wilson manages to wheeze out, and _shit_ , that was a big _fucking_ mistake, because House's eyes narrow and he snarls again, a deep, coughing sound, and then his hands leave Wilson's wrists and wrap themselves around Wilson's throat, pressing the attack.

A gagging, garbled cry escapes Wilson's lips as he frantically attempts to pull his assailant's hands away, but his shoulders are still trapped beneath House's knees and he can't get enough leverage except to grab ineffectually at House's forearms. It's as if he's taken hold of some immensely powerful constrictor, the taut muscles thick as wire cables beneath the skin. He gives up quickly on trying to pry House's fingers off one by one, and fights instead to get his feet on the ground, desperately kicking and twisting in an attempt to gain enough of a purchase to arch his back and buck him off.

It's not enough. House is taller and heavier; he grunts and widens his stance just enough to pin Wilson more effectively to the ground, then tightens his vise-lock on Wilson's throat, clamping down relentlessly to throttle the last reed of air from his windpipe. Black dots start a slow, undulating wave across Wilson's line of sight. His lungs are on fire and he struggles to turn his head, to flex his jaw, anything to try and ease House's crushing grip and draw just _one fucking breath_ , but House's hands are inhumanly strong from years of grasping that damn cane, and Wilson can't break his merciless stranglehold.

 _I'm going to die out here_ , he thinks.

House growls once more; this time it carries an undisguised note of triumph, and a faint, tiny voice, born of desperate instinct, whispers in Wilson's head.

 _Then play the part._

Wilson lets his eyes drift shut, allows his nerveless hands to drop to his sides, and stops trying to live.

Perhaps surprisingly, it's not as hard as he thought.

* * *

For a moment that seems to last an eternity, he's afraid it hasn't worked. House is still attempting to crush his windpipe, and a wave of dizziness threatens to wash him into unconsciousness. And perhaps he _does_ lose consciousness, just for a few seconds, because suddenly the terrible pressure is gone and Wilson finds himself resisting his body's urge to draw in a whooping, life-sustaining breath to his starved lungs. After another endless moment, he feels House sitting up and moving off of his chest. Wilson keeps his eyes shut and lies motionless in the dirt and leaves. Now that everything is quiet, he can feel a stick poking him in the back.

He senses House's movements around him, and barely represses a startled shudder when House abruptly buries his nose in Wilson's left armpit and snuffles a deep, animal breath. He opens his eyes just enough to see the bright moon directly overhead, black tree branches forming a latticework pattern against the round silver face, then quickly squeezes them shut when House moves lower, stifling a panicked cry when House leans over and sniffs loudly at his crotch. It takes everything he has to keep silent as House works his way up Wilson's other side, snuffling at his groin, his right armpit, his hair. At last, apparently satisfied that his prey is either dead or mortally injured, House lies down beside him, but not before throwing a possessive arm over Wilson's chest.

The tiny noises of the forest reassert themselves as Wilson lies frozen, not daring to move. The night wind sighs through the tree branches; somewhere the dry leaves rustle as if a small creature is pushing its whiskery nose amongst the fallen detritus of the forest floor. An owl calls softly and the rustling stops.

House's breathing has evened out, and Wilson opens one eye just enough to take a peek. House _looks_ asleep ...

 _But what if he's not? What if he's just acting, and it's another trap and he's waiting for you to move so he can rip your throat out with his teeth?_

Wilson has to admit the little voice makes a lot of sense. Beside him, House shifts, drawing Wilson even closer. Wilson shuts his eyes in despair.

 _Whatever I do ... I'm fucked._

* * *

When Wilson opens his eyes again, the weight of House's arm is gone. Time has passed -- how much, Wilson can't tell, but the moon has traversed the sky and is lowering on the western horizon. A shadow moves a few feet away and Wilson snaps his eyes shut.

"You're not dead," House says dryly, "so you can stop pretending you are."

Wilson holds his breath.

"Oh, for -- " he hears House mumble, and then there's the scuffling sound of footsteps in dry dirt. The footsteps halt, and then ...

 _"OW!"_

The white-hot shock of pain jolts from Wilson's ankle all the way up his spine, curling him into a fetal position, rocking on the ground as involuntary tears spill from his eyes.

"I barely touched you!" House protests, lowering the cane he'd used to prod Wilson's ankle.

 _"Get away from me!"_ Wilson grits out. "Fucking ... _bastard!_ "

House doesn't move, and Wilson shakes his head.

"Son of a bitch," he says bitterly. "Go ahead then. Kill me and get it over with."

He shuts his eyes against the stinging tears and waits -- for the forearm against his throat, for the rock to bash in his skull, for House to beat him to death with his cane. None of these things happen, and Wilson cautiously opens his eyes.

House is standing over him, and while he _is_ holding his cane, he's not holding it like a weapon. Instead, he's using it to point to Wilson's ankle.

"If I were going to kill you," he says, "would I have done that?"

Wilson follows the line of the makeshift pointer and looks down. His ankle, the one he'd injured in terrified flight, is swollen. It's also been tightly wrapped and braced, in what appears to be a long strip of cloth torn from the bottom of House's shirt.

"It's not broken," House says. "At least, I don't think it is, but you didn't wake up when I was examining it." He reverses the cane, offers its handle to Wilson.

"Here," he says gruffly. "You probably need this more than I do right now."

* * *

"You tried to kill me," Wilson says. His voice sounds raspy to his own ears -- an expected aftereffect, he thinks, of coming within a few seconds of being strangled to death. His esophagus feels as if it's been scraped raw, and he can only imagine the colors of the bruises that must be blossoming on his neck.

" _I_ didn't -- the drug did," House replies, in a grumpy tone that suggests he doesn't appreciate being accused of something he had nothing to do with.

They're both sitting on the ground, a few feet apart, their backs propped against sturdy tree trunks. The distance between them is the barest modicum of protection, but Wilson's got House's cane cradled in his lap. He's not sure he could swing it, seeing as how his hands are still shaking, but he feels better with it there.

"The drug," Wilson says. A twig pops somewhere, and he jumps.

"Yes, the _drug_. Concentrate, will you?" House's voice is a little raspy too, probably from all that growling, and he sounds tired. Still, he sounds more like _House_ and not some wild animal wearing House's skin. "Experiments. On inmates." He rubs a hand across his face. "And doing a piss-poor job of it, too." He drops his hand and looks at Wilson. His eyes are unreadable in the moonlight. "You've heard of the Combat Psych Program. The Preacher's _pet_ project, trying to compound a drug to make wounded men think they're invincible, keep them fighting."

Wilson nods. It's one of the many blackbook experiments at the camp, kept running by a dangerous combination of greed and hubris and a corporate chemist named Preach, who smiles a lot even when there's nothing to smile about. He doesn't want to know how House came to find out about it.

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you," House says. "The drug ... made me think I was a wolf. A ... lion. Hell, I don't know. Something wild. And strong." He looks away. "It felt ... good."

It seems as if there must be more, so after a moment Wilson says, "But?"

House sighs. "But I don't think I like being some corporate suit's lab rat," he says, "no matter how many organic chem classes they slept through." He snorts softly. "They're starting to pass it out like candy," he says. "Different dosages, nobody knows how much or when. Some days my pain pills are just pain pills; other days they're mixed with whatever the blue light special is this week. I want relief, I have to play psychotrope roulette. I must've gotten a mega-dose of something new this morning." He looks sidewise at Wilson.

"Who knows?" he says. "It may even have been you that gave it to me."

"It wasn't -- I mean, I didn't -- "

"Yeah. I figured that out when you agreed to take a stroll with me, alone and unarmed."

It's Wilson's turn to look away. "I was still there," he says slowly. "Handing out pills from unlabeled lots."

House grunts. "The Crash produced the ultimate in deregulation. Some people took advantage of it -- some people were taken advantage of. It's every man for himself these days." He looks at Wilson again. "Speaking of which ... " With an awkward series of balance-twisting hops, he maneuvers himself to his feet and holds out his right hand. "Can I have my cane back now?"

"Your ... but what ... "

"Thought you were smarter than this," House mumbles. "Don't you get it? I'm leaving."

Wilson stands up too, and wills his legs to stop trembling.

"But where will you go? You can't just ... _walk away_ from a Federal work camp."

House reaches out and grabs his cane away from Wilson's grasp.

"You'd be surprised," he says, "what you can walk away from."

He starts away, stumping slowly through the woods, all his earlier animal grace gone. After he's gone a few feet, he stops and looks back.

"Well," he says, "aren't you coming?"

Wilson shakes his head. "You almost killed me," he says. "What if it happens again? If you don't know exactly what was in those pills, how do you know you won't have a flashback?" He takes a step back, hissing as his sprained ankle registers an objection. "I'll go my own way."

"Don't be an idiot," House snaps. "It's over. You start gimping around here at night, lost, and someone else will kill you."

Wilson stands still for a long moment. As much as he hates to admit it, House is right. He's lost, and he doesn't know how many of the camp's night guards -- with their night-scope rifles -- are on duty. Or where they're stationed, or how bored and how trigger-happy they might be. Or even if they might be ranging through the woods, baying at the moon, their brains boiling with the same animal fever that had infected House.

"Come on," House says. "We'll ... lean on each other. Take turns with the cane." He turns away and starts walking again, picking his way through the short grass.

As if in a dream, Wilson follows, and when they reach the ragged, unrepaired hole in the camp fence, he realizes it's been there all along.

* * *

There aren't many cars on the freeway this time of night, but after an hour or so of House's increasingly slow pace, one pulls over to the shoulder and stops next to the two men. Wilson's turned up his collar as high as it will go to conceal the marks of House's attempted murder, and House has turned his own shirt inside out to hide the prison camp logo stitched across the back and on the chest pocket. They're both pathetic disguises, but the driver motions them in, and when Wilson catches a glimpse of the vehicle's interior he can guess why.

The car is a little Chinese Tiger runabout that's obviously seen better days; inside, it's warm and foggy with a thick, smoky haze. From the harsh smell and the driver's cheerful demeanor, Wilson guesses it's Utah Gold, one of the cheaper cannabis blends on the market these days. A pair of fuzzy dice, colored a garish purple not occurring in any natural universe, dangle from the precariously-tilted rearview mirror.

"Where you guys headed?" the driver says.

"Away from here," House grunts, settling back into a tattered vinyl seat.

"I hear ya on that," the guy says agreeably. The car accelerates with a grinding shift of gears, and he turns up the radio. A commercial is playing, but all Wilson can catch over the roar of the badly-tuned engine are the words _"Opportunities now!"_

"Hey!" the driver yells. "Isn't there supposed to be one of those Federal camps around here?" He turns wide, innocent eyes to Wilson. "Like Area 51? You ever heard anything about that?"

House coughs from the back seat. Maybe it's from the smoke.

Wilson settles back into his own seat. A small piece of foam rubber bounces free and falls onto the floor, already littered with other small bits of foam rubber.

"Nope," Wilson says. "I never have."

~ fin


End file.
